


Dismantled

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 14:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20996045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Mairon worries for Melkor’s wounds.





	Dismantled

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asenath_waite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asenath_waite/gifts).

> A/N: Fill for Asenath Waite’s “Melkor/Mairon, adjusting to Melkor's increasing disability. Canon or modern AU, smut or not.” request on [my Dreamwidth](https://yeaka.dreamwidth.org/1190.html).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He drifts down the stairs to the deepest room, the one buried farthest underground, and he sheds his armour as he goes. Some of it litters the stairwell, others become wisps of smoke that dissipate into the stale airs, and a few things Mairon lets cling to his pale form. He bares his chest and face, though his cloak and skirts remain. He frees his fire-red hair from his helmet and lets it billow out behind him. He isn’t quite in the body of an elf, though that might be the closest vision amongst corporeal templates—he needs to be taller than that so he can stand next to his lord. After a long battle, all Mairon wants is that: to return to Melkor’s arms. 

He finally reaches the door to their private bedchambers, or rather, his master’s: he knows hat he’s only a guest. A part of him finds solace in that. He _wants_ Melkor to up tower above him. He wants a higher power to serve, one so mighty that even he can’t stand against it. A small part of Mairon wants to be _dominated_.

Only Melkor has ever offered him that. Even Manwë, strong as he was, was always too _soft_. Not Melkor. He stands in the corner before a new tapestry, one painted in the blood of fallen soldiers, depicting all their victories. His enormous figure casts a shadow over it, his grey skin and black hair eaten up in darkness. Candles light the room, but their fragile glow isn’t enough to keep the shadows back. They flare brighter when Mairon passes them, feeding on his fervor. 

He pauses behind his master. Melkor’s armour is also stripped away—a rare sight only ever granted to Mairon. He’s quite sure that none of Melkor’s other minions have ever been so lucky. They’ll never know just what they’re missing. Even trapped in a purely physical being, Melkor is the most handsome creature that Mairon’s ever seen. His jagged lines and rough curves make Mairon’s pulse race beneath his frail skin. But Melkor isn’t quite as flawless as he used to be, and with his tunic removed, Mairon can see two of his seven scars. His long hair half covers one gigantic gash, the other snaking clearly down his side. The charred remains of his foot are even more distressing. Both look painful. Looking directly at the broken stump always makes Mairon wince and have to turn away. Melkor is the epitome of _power_, and he always acts as though his wounds mean nothing to him, but privately, Mairon finds that difficult to believe. He can’t fathom being _maimed_. Being confined to a single form, and having that form _damaged_, frightens him more than he would ever dare say aloud. He drifts towards Melkor, and his hands are gentle as they grasp both broad shoulders. He lets his fingers brush over one scar, and he murmurs, “Do they hurt, Master?”

Melkor turns around, forcing Mairon to drop his grip. Then a hand darts out to grab his jaw, thick fingers curling beneath his chin. Marion’s face is wrenched upwards, and his yellow gaze catches on his master’s. Black holes bore down into him, wriggling into his very soul and invading every part of his being. In that moment, Mairon can sense just how much strength Melkor still holds. And it’s _intoxicating._ Mairon’s pity ebbs away, replaced instead with raging _lust_. It makes him want to submit all over again, to swear allegiance to and be crushed under Melkor’s unstoppable force. Melkor sneers, bearing serrated teeth, and Mairon’s body begins to tremble.

Melkor dives down to bruise a kiss into him, one that Mairon _loves_. He forgets the pain entirely. As Melkor pulls away afterwards, Mairon’s eyes beg to be taken. He doesn’t even care that Melkor limps on his way to their bed, because Mairon knows that Melkor is the only one he’ll _ever_ serve.


End file.
